


Positive Reinforcement

by Hyperthetical



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Cock & Ball Torture, Fisting, Forced Orgasm, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prostate Milking, Sex Pollen, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperthetical/pseuds/Hyperthetical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's what you do when life hands you a chance to be with someone special. You just grab that brownish area by its points and you don't let go no matter what your mom says."<br/>- Buster Bluth</p><p>HYDRA gives the asset a reward. It goes about as well as you can imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Positive Reinforcement

**Author's Note:**

> Written at hydratrashmeme for the following prompt: _Positive reinforcement, HYDRA quickly learns, makes the winter soldier 10000 times easier to manipulate than negative reinforcement._
> 
> If you enjoy the OC in this story, I *highly* recommend checking out the podfic by [sallysparrow017](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017): [[Podfic] Positive Reinforcement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3681600)
> 
> I now exist on [tumblr](http://quiescentire.tumblr.com/)! Follow me for almost no content other than notes to myself about writing.

**Baltimore, MD  
November, 1996**

Brock paces back and forth in front of the holding area. A week in the field has done little to curb his frenetic energy, and his C.O. has taken to assigning him the most bullshit post-mission cleanup tasks, all somehow taking place far away from her office and minimizing any chance of a face-to-face with their higher-ups. He's never going to get promoted, he thinks sourly. 

"It's not 'New Age-y', it's basic psychology. Like that thing with the dog and the bell."

"This is a stupid idea." Jack is very young, but over the past eight months has cultivated the risk aversion of a forty-year veteran. Hydra had tapped him almost as young as they had Rumlow. It's amazing what a little shrapnel to the face will do for your worldview.

"No, right, it's carrot-and-stick, it makes sense. It's weird that they didn't do it before."

"Maybe they did and it went wrong and we're all about to get killed by murder-face back there." He pointedly does not look over his shoulder. The asset is staring at the opposite wall, expressionless. Rollins suppresses a shiver. "It's creepy."

"Fuck you. Be a fucking optimist for once, fuck. Jesus."

Rollins wants to flip him off, but settles for rolling his eyes. He keeps both hands on his rifle when he's in the same building as the asset. Safety first. "I'm just saying, I wouldn't fucking do it. Twenty bucks says he has a total freak-out."

Rumlow scoffs. "It's supposed to be a positive experience, your face--"

"My face is great, and this is fucking kinky as fuck, whose idea was this. Oh my god was it the new Secretary? It was him wasn't it--"

"--disqualifies you _don't fucking say that oh my God_ \--"

"Don't pull on your hair like that, you'll ruin it--"

*

"A reward. For your dedication and loyalty," the dark-haired man says. The asset stares. He is certain this has never happened before, and this sub-handler is merely temporary, deputized in the field by his actual handler. She had shouted a lot of things while the rest of the extraction team pretended not to listen.

The sub-handler rolls his eyes at someone outside the cell. "I'm not explaining the birds and bees to him, Jesus Christ. Listen, you'll feel good, you'll like it. It's healthy sometimes, to, y'know. Get release." The asset frowns. Release from what? 

The man makes some kind of vague hand-wave-y gesture. It explains nothing. The asset completed all three of his mission objectives and performed well within specified parameters, he's sure of it. Better than specified. Fourteen hours ago the bodies had been sunk in the river Dniester, and evidence planted suggesting fringe elements of the national Communist party were responsible. He was not seen, and his extraction went exactly as planned. He's already been debriefed and repaired, normal maintenance procedures completed without incident. Deviations from his normal post-mission routine are never -- are never good. His heart rate starts climbing.

The asset drops his eyes to the floor.

"It's not -- you're not being punished, I swear. Fuck, here--"

Don't react. A handler can approach him and that is allowed, that is fine, that is--

"--don't freak out, okay? This is just their rules, they said it makes it better for you. You'll like it."

He goes rigid as the dark-haired man -- a handler can touch him, that is allowed, that is -- slides something heavy and soft over his hair, over his ears, his eyes. The smell of it is distinct. Sharp. The same material as the heavy belt around his waist, the padded cuffs around his wrists, that allowed the technicians to clean him so thoroughly an hour ago. His leverage is suboptimal with his wrists bound to his sides, and the magnetic action of the restraints makes no sound when he flinches.

He is being good. He is not resisting and he is being good. He is obedient. 

"That's good, good. See, it's nice, you're going to have a good time--"

An almost-sob, it doesn't count, he is being so quiet and still. He is hardly shivering at all.

"--you're going to have a good time, and then I'll come get you when you're done and you can sleep. You'd like that, yeah? You be good and then sleep."

The asset wishes that could be true.

*

The asset is escorted along the hallway and into a room. It is two floors down and 344 feet north-northeast of the Medical holding cell, which is twelve floors down and 632 feet north from the southwest ground-level vehicle entrance the extraction team brought him through five hours ago. The asset has had extensive practice operating at various levels of sensory deprivation, and he is already familiar with the layout of this compound. If they mean to disorient him spatially, they have not succeeded.

The sub-handler's guiding hand on his back pushes him forward into the room and then presses down until he sinks to his knees. He has been successfully delivered to his destination, presumably, because the man then walks out and closes the door behind him, rejoining his armed comrade outside the door. The asset goes completely still, not breathing as he strains for more information about his surroundings. He cannot tell where their footsteps go. He'd rub the half-hood off against the floor, wishes he could at least uncover his ears so he could hear properly, but he is certain that would be disobeying, and he is being good. 

He waits. 

This room is warm, and. Soft? The upholstered floor gives gently against his knees, thin cotton pants providing little insulation. He spreads his bare toes out into it. This flooring provides excellent traction should explosive movement be required. The floor must be warmed from underneath, too, because his feet vasodilate and are soon burning with hot blood, chasing away the chill of the hallway cement. His shins soak up the heat where they press against the carpet. 

Time passes. He hates the waiting. The waiting is worse than -- worse than many things. Or maybe not worse but -- he hates the waiting.

At least he is warm.

A door opens. A different door, this room must have many doors. A person steps into the room and the asset cocks his head to listen. Their stride indicates average height, average weight. Gender uncertain. No indication of superior athletic prowess. No heavy weapons, although the asset knows weapons do not have to be large to be effective.

"Hello." Their voice is warm, like the room. 

The reverb pattern suggests this room is not particularly large or particularly small, or perhaps that the walls are upholstered to absorb sound. The asset turns his head from side to side, collecting further details. If he is still and does not breathe he can hear water sluicing through pipes in the walls, the rush of air through the ventilation system, a humming--

"Soldier, hello. Your superiors have explained to me about your situation. Listen to me, please." 

The asset swallows convulsively. He would rather listen to the building-noises than this voice, but. He is being good. He fixes his attention on the voice. He can listen until -- he can listen.

The person walks steadily over to the asset. They make no attempt to obscure their location, although the asset has learned to be skilled. One time he had lost a target in a sea of long-haired, screaming people all jumping up and down in unison. She had hidden beneath the sound stage and sliced his hamstring half open before he cut her throat. His field commander was very displeased at the mess. When the asset screamed during debriefing, it was a little like the music.

"I am a gift, did you know that? You must be very special. I'm special too." The voice smiles at him.

The asset is not for smiling at. He frowns.

"Ah, sweetheart, you're too pretty to make that face." 

Now the voice is crouching in front of the asset. The asset leans away as much as he can without obviously shuffling backwards from where he was placed. Sweat breaks out on his skin with the effort of holding the unnatural position. Stress position. He can withstand them indefinitely, but. He wishes he did not have the hood, so they could see how he is looking at the floor, not challenging, not fighting. He is not aggressive, he is being good and they should not, it's _unfair_ , it's--

"Hey, hey, hey. I'm here to make you feel good." Now the voice is frowning, too. The asset feels a little guilty but he cannot prevent the wash of epinephrine-norepinephrine-cortisol that blows through him at such close proximity of a non-target.

"I'm going to touch you. Just here, so I can -- listen to you better. Since you're so quiet," the voice says.

They lay a hand on the asset's naked chest. The asset jerks back and immediately feels a hot rush of shame, after all, they aren't hurting him yet, and he is not afraid, he can withstand it, he is not--

"Whoa there big guy. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's just -- okay, let's just take it real slow." The hand does not move away. The rest of the person does not move either. The asset is suddenly glad for the bindings that help him be obedient, as he does not think he could withstand the temptation to push this honey-sweet voice away from him otherwise. It is _touching_ him, and he does not. He feels like, he feels like the voice and the hand is somehow listening and he is giving everything away. The person must be able to feel his heart racing under their hand, his arms flexing in their restraints, they must feel the fear-sweat prickling his skin. He has nowhere to hide, he is trying to be good but he knows he will be bad, soon, with this hand on him, he will be bad and he cannot help it--

"Hey, you're okay, calm down, let's get you some water or something maybe," and the hand's thumb rubs across a taut pectoral muscle.

The asset takes in air in desperate gulps at the warning -- he had never adapted to simulated drowning, always hated it no matter how much they helped him practice -- but he cannot make himself, he cannot, he's going to-- 

"I didn't, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'll be better next time please tell me how to be good, I want to be good, I can be good …" The rest is unintelligible as the asset dissolves into panicky sobs. He can feel the tears spilling over his lashes under the hood, and hates himself.

The voice responds to his distress in the worst way possible. "Oh, no, sweetheart, come here," and their arms wrap around him and he _cannot get away_

*

In the adjoining room, Rumlow shakes his head at the one-way glass. "Well fuck, that's just pathetic." Blinking red lights indicate the asset's misery is being recorded from six different angles.

"You owe me twenty bucks."

"I'm just saying, telling him how sex works wouldn't have calmed him down any. It doesn't even make any sense, what are birds doing flying around fucking bees for anyway? Who makes up this shit?"

Rollins sighs. "At least we aren't murdered."

"Yeah, that's something."

*

He is lying on a springy surface. He is warm, and not-hurting, and not-hungry. His heart is beating -- one, two, three, four, five, six. Abruptly he remembers and jerks awake--

The restraints have no give, but the cuffs are well-padded and his sudden movement will not leave bruises. The hood is gone and he is merely blindfolded. It feels like fabric. If he opens his eyes he can see light through the soft weave. He blinks. Yellow-gold-bright.

"Hello again," the voice says. Their hand has been resting on his chest. Not -- not pressing down, just resting.

The asset is too tired to startle. He always feels like this, after he, after--

"I'm sorry that didn't … usually my introductions are not so. Dramatic."

The voice should not be apologizing to the asset.

"Let's start over. Hello, I'm here as a gift to you. To reward you for being good."

The asset licks his lips, to say. To say. He doesn't know.

"I promise not to offer you a glass of water again, though." The voice is smiling. The asset wishes it would stop. Go away. But it hasn't--

"Not … punish?" It's a whisper, but that's all he can get out.

"No! Definitely not. Not ever, not from me. That's outside my job description."

The asset has never been good at jokes. He wishes he could see the person's face, so he could tell better if they were lying. Mostly he can tell.

He lets his head fall back against the bed. He can't really articulate a useful response, so he hopes this is enough.

"Does this feel like punishment?" The voice is curious, and their hand is still on him.

A pause. "Not yet."

"Sweetheart." The voice is dripping honey, now, sweet as sunshine. "All I'm going to do is touch you, exactly how you want to be touched. How you need to be touched. That's all. I won't do anything you don't like, I swear."

The asset wishes he could believe. He is so warm, and tired. He likes to be warm.

The person tugs another blanket up over his feet and legs. Their hand on his chest feels like -- feels like. His pants are gone. The asset closes his eyes beneath the blindfold, and breathes. He will endure.

"That's it, sweetheart, you're doing so good." The voice is encouraging. "I'm so happy with you, you've done so well. Look at you," and the hand is tracing a slow path along his sternum, now. "Look at how good you are."

It feels like bubbles, sparking up through his chest. Pale golden champagne bubbles. He remembers champagne, from infiltrating a ball hosted by the Serbian ambassador. The ambassador's son went missing that night. The asset merely procured the fingers, did not deliver them himself, but he knew the prints were intact so he assumes the ransom was delivered in a timely fashion. Probably the target got to keep his toes. _Heil Hydra_ \--

"Hey, stay with me now. You're right here, everything is warm and safe." The voice is -- affectionate. The asset wants to be suspicious but their hands are running along his sides, steady, soothing. He likes the hands, he thinks dazedly. He is so tired but he likes them. He hums in assent.

"Yes, that's right. Stay here with me." Hands are sweeping across his collarbones, down his chest. Across his collarbones, down his sides. Across his collarbones, up to his neck,

"Shh, shh, it's alright, this is to make you feel good, you'll like it, I promise." The asset stiffens but the hands feel so, so good as they stroke up the column of his throat. It must be some kind of mistake, to have so much sensory feedback at such a vulnerable spot. The carotid and the external jugular all run so close to the surface there, it's so easy to push the blade in and then forward, _a spurt of arterial blood bright red in the snow_

"Come back to me, come back, I'm right here. Everything is right here," the voice is gentle. Warm hands run along his trachea, under his jaw, touching behind his ears, the back of his neck. The asset sighs and tilts his head back.

"That's right, there you are. You're so good, sweetheart, so good."

Fingers in his hair, dragging against his scalp. Why does it feel -- why does he feel, this feeling? Lips press gently against his flesh shoulder, then his neck. Firecracker sparks shooting in his belly. He is suddenly less tired.

"Well, hello, there you are." The voice is … teasing him, maybe? "Just happy. Happy you're here."

The asset feels like he is floating, but also that -- also that he would like the hands to stay. "And the voice too, I'm sure. I'm told my voice is very nice," and the asset is sure this is what they call joking. Kisses are placed along the side of his neck and he feels that sparky-feeling again. "I'm getting there, don't you worry, I'll take care of you." This last is murmured against his throat and the asset shivers. He wants to -- but his hands are restrained, of course. Disappointment. He wants … something. He's not sure. His hands twitch.

"Maybe next time, beautiful, just relax now for me though." Yes. Yes, he can do that. "You're so good, so good," and the affection in that voice sounds like, sounds like. Something sweet and perfect and he misses, he _aches_ \-- 

"All for you, just for you sweetheart," The kisses are trailing down his chest now, and strong hands running across his flanks. This is the best he's ever felt, he's sure of it. The voice chuckles at his navel. "Oh, not even close. Trust me, I've got you."

The voice pulls back to slide up along the asset's body. Their mouth is over the asset's heart, protected by ribs that are _not difficult to break, about 400 pounds of force which is well below the average impact delivery of an Olympic boxer, observe_

The asset cannot contain the sound that escapes him when that tongue wraps around a nipple. He's panting all of a sudden, which makes no sense because he's not exerting any effort, he's just -- gasping and shuddering as fingers come up to pluck and tease at the wet skin. He can feel it peaked, as if in the cold, but it's warm here and he's not, he's not--

Their mouth is on his other nipple while their hand stays on his first, worrying at his heaving chest. The asset is squirming under that mouth, those hands, the honey-voice is lying right beside him and the asset has never wanted to push someone away less than he does right now. His arms flex restlessly in their bindings, hands clenching into fists and then relaxing. He is making noises, and he is vaguely embarrassed but he cannot stop.

"No, it's gorgeous, how sensitive you are. You need this so much, don't you."

The asset can only moan in response, he has no words for this. His body is lit up from inside somehow, he feels--

"I've got you, you can let go, I've got you--"

He feels, he feels--

He gasps at the biting, sucking, that mouth is all over his chest, those _hands_ don't let up for a moment and his hips are thrusting against the tucked-in blanket nonsensically,

"Yes, that's right, give it up--"

A broken, drawn-out cry and the asset is coming in spurts over his own belly, messing up the sheets, the blanket, the bed. There are teeth against the edge of his nipple, fingers on the other side pulling him through it and he feels so -- he feels. His vision is filled with stars beneath the blindfold. The tongue turns gentle, face tucked in against him as he comes down from, from it. From _coming so goddamn hard, Rogers, how do you do this to me, you didn't even touch me_ \--

"I'll touch you, I'll touch you plenty, stay here with me sweetheart, don't leave." The asset is shaking with aftershocks but the honey-voice, the honey-voice is right there. The asset reaches for him and huffs, annoyed, when he can't wrap his arms _around his skinny frame. Gotta return the favour before I hafta leave_ \--

"Baby, baby, come here, I'm right here," and the voice is pressing kisses against the corner of the asset's mouth. The asset turns his head to fit their lips together, not being aggressive -- no, never aggressive, he's being good, he's being -- "So good right now, yes, so good for me, don't worry dear one," -- their mouths are together. The asset wonders if he is allowed and, "Of course, always," opens to slip his tongue inside the others' mouth. _You were always so good at kissing, Buck, it's unfair to the dames really, I'm just keeping your damn mouth from getting you into trouble_ , 

The asset is happy. He likes kissing, he thinks. He could spend hours doing this, just working someone up with lips and tongue until they're whining and grinding against his hip. "Ah, darling, I think that's my job right now," the honey-voice laughs. "Dereliction of duty. I'll get back to work, I swear." The mouth leaves his own to slide down the asset's belly. To the mess the asset has made, and he cringes, expecting--

"None of that now, you're doing exactly what you're supposed to, you're being so good. Just perfect for me. You just lie back and let me work."

His semen is wiped away with a soft, wet cloth. It is warm. Everything is warm. His lips are swollen from kissing, his nipples are hot and sensitive from being played with so thoroughly. Everywhere those hands have run feels like burning but so, so good. His insides are warm and melting, and he feels, he feels--

*

Rollins shifts uncomfortably. "Huh," he says. He's never been tempted to grind a hard-on into the butt of his rifle before, but then, he thinks philosophically, there's a first time for everything. Hydra surprises him, sometimes.

Rumlow is staring fixedly through the glass. For once, he has nothing to say.

*

The person with the honey-voice is kneeling between his legs, blankets pushed down to the asset's knees. The asset wants to tense up but cannot, with those hands stroking up and down his thighs. Up along the vastus medialis, down along the vastus lateralis. Up along the rectus femoris, and into the psoas. _His psoas are always tight_ , a trainer says. _Too much kicking, not enough hip-opening sequences, common in fighters_ , 

"Stay with me, stay here, sweetheart--"

Down along the sartorius, up into the adductors. Adductors, adductors which are lighting up his brain _like a pinball machine, Stevie, you gotta, you gotta_ \--

The asset lets out a breath and spreads his legs imperceptibly wider. Is that enough? Will the honey-voice know, 

"Of course I'll know, darling, anything for you. You're so sweet for me, so good."

And oh God the feel of those hands is indescribable, thumbs running up into the crease of his groin, he needs, he needs, he is on fire with need--

A finger slips below his balls, just touching. Gentle. They can't have missed his sharp intake of breath but he can't help the spike of instinctual fear that lances through him. He freezes in the restraints as his scrotum is cupped in a warm hand. Measuring. The weight of it lifted in someone else's palm is exquisite and terrifying, and he gasps as his testicles are rolled carefully in their sacs. He's not so aroused again yet that his balls have drawn up close to his body, and the slack gives those clever hands space to pull at him a little, testing his muscle tone, testing his courage … "Hush, precious. I'll not harm you." Their other hand sweeps up and down his thigh, repeating the same pattern, over and over. Reassuring. He's supposed to feel reassured.

He can do that. He thinks about breathing, inhales as smooth and deep as he can, and exhales. Careful. Controlled. No need to show -- to show how much it. How much--

The hand rubs slow circles on his belly where it rises and falls with his breath. After a minute, his shaking has subsided and only the occasional tremor slips through.

"I know, you're being so brave right now, I'm so proud of you," the voice says. The asset melts into it, trembling. "I know you need this, and I'll give it to you. I'll give you everything, for being so good. So good."

He wishes he could see the person kneeling between his legs, smiling at him, touching him so well. The asset is not for smiling at, but just for a few seconds, maybe ...

A kiss at the crest of his hip when those fingers start pulling at him. First one testis, then the other, rolling and squeezing and pulling. The asset thrashes his head from side to side. It is so much, so much. His groin throbs and his gut aches and he's certain he is is moaning aloud with it. He tries to spread his legs wider and is confounded by layers of blankets and sheets.

"Bend your knees, put your feet flat on the bed. That's right, that's perfect." A kiss against the inside of a knee -- he is so exposed. So vulnerable. He is panting with how much he loves it. He is _kind of slutty but God, Bucky, seeing you get like this, oh my God_ ,

"You need this so badly, don't you. I'm so glad I can give this to you," that honey-sweet voice drips into his ear. Both hands, now, are working at him and he shudders. "Not yet, not yet. I want you to have so much more of this, hold on--" and something tightens around the base of his cock and balls. He stills for a moment, frustrated by the blindfold. Another lead tightens around only his balls, tighter, tighter, tight -- how can -- _oh, God I'm gonna come, sorry Stevie, it's too good_ …

But the hands on him this time don't allow it. The asset's eyes roll back in his head as he's pulled away from the knife's edge of orgasm by firm fingers pulling his sac down, down. It almost hurts and he cries out.

"Almost, just a moment," and then he's panting again as the final loop separates his testes from each other, his scrotum divided into two tightly bound parcels pulled obscenely away from his body, on display. Bindings around the base of his genitals, and another around the base of his cock, making him throb and twitch. "There, it's alright, I've got you. Ride it out, you can do it." Kisses showered along his knee, his thigh, as he shudders and holds on. _Fuck fuck fuck Stevie I can't_ \--

His cock has drooled a puddle onto his stomach, its head exposed and angry purple, but he's safely away from the brink now. Those hands are running along his calves, the arches of his feet, back up to his hips, flanks, down to his groin, settling him over and over as he presses into the sensation. He is lit up, he has somehow eaten light bulbs and flipped the switch and they're glowing inside him, he has never been this alive, this full of -- of feeling. Of something.

"There, yes, good, stay right there, that's beautiful," The voice says, and wet kisses are inexorably running up his adductors. He's going to come, he can't stand it, he's. "Don't think you can, you're tied too tight." Mouth smiling against his skin. He's maybe going to die, he thinks wildly, how much can even his serum-enhanced heart withstand, "That seems unlikely, no need for dramatics--"

His balls are engulfed in a hot, wet mouth and he's sobbing. Sucking at him, squeezing each sac and then pulling at it so the bindings dig deeper. First the left, then the right, and he's impossibly hard. A fresh spurt of pre-come pulses out of him at the end of each motion, and the rhythm of the person's mouth slows and deepens, remorselessly pushing him towards some extremity of sensation. He cannot last, it's impossible, this is -- this is maybe his punishment, keeping him right on the edge for hours until his face is a mess of tears and snot and he's begging, begging, and then they'll throw him back in cryo without allowing him to finish because _it's not like he's even a person, and anyway he won't remember_

Humming, teeth ever-so-gently grazing against the skin at the edge of the bindings. "I would never do that to you, I promise. You're gonna come so much your balls will be empty for weeks," and the asset doesn't dare breathe as those hands release the binds just barely enough for his body to-- 

A slick hand wraps firmly around his shaft and strokes up and then down his cock once, twice, again. A fourth time, and that's it, he's shouting with his release, incoherent with its intensity. _Fuck fuck fuck yes fuck thank you thank you love you, God, love you so much_ muddied into confused swirls of emotions and he's half-laughing and half-crying, somehow, maybe they were right and maybe he's a machine and maybe all of his circuits have just overloaded and blown all at once. It's not so bad.

*

Rumlow was still staring. He hadn't said a word in the past two hours.

Rollins had waited until he was sweating and shifting from foot to foot. There was a mostly-empty washroom on the thirteenth sub-basement. He was so cranked up it didn't take long, and he felt much better now.

*

The asset sleeps, he thinks, for a short while. Perhaps he is just offline. 

"Don't be silly, darling, no machine can do that. At least not yet." 

The asset is awake and the other person is still here, arms wrapped around him. Not a dream, not -- not taken away already?

"I'm pretty sure they intend to let you keep this, it doesn't really make sense otherwise." The voice drawls. "Your recovery time is spectacular, though, so on that front you might be able to convince me there's something, uhm, not entirely standard about you. " They lick a stripe up the inside of his elbow and the asset -- the asset is ticklish. A sound escapes him. 

He must never report this. The asset is not for giggling.

"No, you are for kissing, apparently."

Yes. Kissing is good, kissing is -- he likes it. He is allowed to like it, he thinks rebelliously. He turns his head into it and loses himself in the other. It's not long until he's hard again. He wonders if he was always like this or if something is, is wrong inside him. 

"Stop worrying so much, sweetling, it's making me insecure," and that mouth is nibbling at his neck. It's very distracting. The asset allows himself to be distracted.

Kisses are planted all over his chest, his shoulders, his arms, even the metal one. His nipples are still tender but the mouth is gentle, so gentle with him. He feels a rush of, of something. He is rarely given gentle, he thinks.

Those kisses drop lower and lower along his belly. The asset is -- is he allowed? He has already had so much, and his want seems insatiable. He could do this forever and not grow tired. He could kiss and touch forever and never go back into cryo, stay here in the warmth and light where sweet voices tell him he is being good, that everything will be alright, say hello and listen and don't hurt him--

"That train of thought is just too sad to be leaving the station. You're breaking my heart here, come back." 

The asset realizes he is breathing very fast. He slows down, counting. One two three four five six pause exhale two three four five six seven eight …

"Good, so proud of you. Stay with me here, don't leave." Yes, stay in the moment. He can do that. He can -- kissing, he wants kissing, please _kiss me I need you please_ "I'm right here, right here," and their mouths join and move against each other once more. Their bodies are pressed up against each other, legs tangled together. Kissing, breathing. He is so warm. It is enough.

That golden voice is clever, though, and slips a thigh between his legs. It is so -- it is so -- he is rutting up against it and still kissing, open-mouthed, and it is _so good_

*

"I volunteer as tribute." Rumlow's face is still flushed when he returns from his own, ah, bathroom break. 

Rollins raises an eyebrow. "Do you have a death wish? You're not gonna live long enough to get promoted."

"Oh, come on. Live a little."

Rollins turns to glare, huffs, then turns back to the glass. "They do seem very thorough."

*

He wants the blindfold off. He wants to see--

"No. That's the only thing that's a no."

But he wants--

"No."

But--

"No, sweetheart. God, you're very persistent. Hush now."

The asset doesn't go completely silent, though. It is hard to be completely silent with a mouth around your cock. He's not making words anymore, at least. He hopes that is good enough.

*

"Is he really--"

"I mean, he's genetically enhanced or something, I guess it has side effects. I've never been genetically enhanced, I don't know."

Rumlow is wild-eyed. "But that's like, six--"

"Seven, I think, if you count the one where he sort of--" Rollins screws up his face and wiggles a hand to illustrate.

"Okay, seven, but how -- how can he--"

"I dunno. I guess it's been a while for him."

The asset makes a gasping, strangled noise and his whole body convulses, back arching.

"Eight."

*

When he comes to again, the asset is on his belly, with the other person straddling the backs of his thighs. Their hands are stroking along his naked back, up into his shoulders, firmly pressing into his muscles. Deliberate strokes up the edges of his spine, radiating out into the muscle attachments for each vertebra, one at a time. Scalenes and trapezius given special attention, slow and steady pressure with a forearm to draw the tension out. Strong fingers pushing into his subscapulars, which are always tight and overworked with the stress of his prosthetic. They are finding all of his strains and knots and touching it right out of him. It is exquisite. He breathes into it, feeling grounded and like he's floating away at the same time.

After an hour, maybe two -- his sense of time is elastic, now, with the yellow-gold-bright light infusing his whole body -- those hands encourage him up onto his knees and he goes with them like liquid, unresisting. His wrists are still bound to his sides so he cannot hold himself up, and with his hips high in the air, his chest and shoulders are braced against the bed, spine in full extension. His cheek is pressed into a rumpled blanket but the blindfold has been well-secured and he still sees nothing beyond the warm glow suffusing the room. This posture is the ultimate in submission, he thinks, and he should be fighting or angry or _terrified terrified what if they, if, again_ but the person has showed no sign of wanting to hurt or punish or dominate him so they might be, they might be--

 _Safe?_ The asset consciously relaxes back into the warm haze that those hands have given him. "Oh, good boy. That's exactly right. You're so perfect for me." They are kneading and stroking his lower back, the crest of his sacrum, and then the large muscles of his buttocks. This feels different than the pressure on the muscles of his back, but he is too boneless to respond.

The honey-voice shifts the asset's knees further apart, planting kisses down his spine in reward. That fluttering sensation in his belly has returned, but he's too dreamy to think beyond the immediate feel of things. The kisses drop lower and lower, right to the edge of -- that can't be right, that can't be--

The asset squeaks and his breath catches as a kiss is placed on his exposed anus. The technicians had been extremely thorough in his post-mission cleaning, but he's glad his face is pressed into the blankets because he can feel himself blushing furiously. The person's mouth is smiling against him and doesn't pause, kissing him open-mouthed and wet, all over his crease and down his perineum. The asset's genitals hang heavy below his body, cock reluctantly thickening as the attention to his ass continues. His balls are swollen half again their normal size from their earlier treatment, aching and sore with use. He's not sure what is required of him but he's afraid he doesn't have much more to give.

The voice laughs quietly. "I assure you, there's so much more. Don't worry your pretty head about it, you're doing so well." Then that clever tongue is kissing and licking and flickering at his hole, and pressing into him and oh, oh, oh, this is like no other feeling. He pushes back into it, wanting more. Some kind of sense memory is fluttering around the edges of his mind and he's certain there's more, he doesn't know what exactly, but it's imperative that he gets it.

"I've got you, that's right, keep asking for me," the voice licks into him. His body is opening up, accepting him, greedy with pleasure as their tongue swirls inside him. More. He needs more. The voice hums in agreement, and hands spread him apart to hold him open for their attention.

Slippery liquid is drizzled onto his buttocks and drips down into the crease of his ass. "Slowly, I always work slowly." Just the tip of one slick finger, at first. He whines when it pauses, and the honey-voice obligingly pushes farther in. "There's no rush."

The asset is canting his hips back against that finger trying to get more, _more want more come on_ but they are slow, so slow. His cock fills out completely before they've worked a second finger into him, and he's grunting and rocking backwards onto their hand as much as they'll allow, ashamed at the picture he must be making but too worked up to hold still. The bedding is just rough enough on his nipples to make him groan as he fucks back and forth, so carefully.

"Yes, so good, you open up like a dream," and fingers are reaching deeper inside him, searching, as their mouth lays admiring kisses over his hips and buttocks and sacrum. It's not enough, not enough at all, but then--

 _God, yes, fuck, again_ and he's gasping and grinding their fingertips back onto that spot, involuntarily spreading his knees even farther. He can hear the satisfaction in their voice when they tell him how good he is, how beautiful he is like this, so perfect. "But slower, now, more slow this time." Their hand is on his hip, guiding his pace towards something less demanding than what his body is aching for. He fights it, trying to control the pace -- "I'm impressed, but for now we're just going to -- yes, there."

The asset jumps as something cool and heavy clicks into place around his scrotum. It feels like metal, it must be steel to be so heavy. It's wrapped around the base of his sac, swinging with each thrust of his hips and hauling down on his aching testicles. His internal ligaments and muscles are too tired, now, to draw up against its weight and he pants in discomfort as they are stretched downwards. He settles back into stillness after a few aborted thrusts, frustrated by the counterpoint in sensation, wanting more of that pressure against his prostate but now unable to get it himself without pulling sickeningly on his own balls. 

A soothing hand runs up and down his back. "There, there, sweetheart, I just didn't expect you to be so into this so quickly. It's just for now, I'll take it off in a bit." The asset groans, face screwed up in distress. They still only have two fingers in his ass, brushing over his prostate occasionally but not enough to satisfy. Their other hand is firm against his hip to hold him still, as if the weighted ball-stretchers wouldn't succeed at that on their own. 

"Just settle in, now, take what I give you." A hand cups his swollen sac, squeezing until the asset grimaces and groans again. Feather-light strokes of a fingertip up the line of his cock, down both sides, and then a loose circle of thumb and forefinger enclose him, jerking him loosely once, twice. The asset is panting harshly now. "That's right, just like that." His eyes are squeezed shut under the blindfold, blocking out the increasingly bright golden light. His thighs tremble against the strain of holding still.

Their circled fingers tighten a little around his cock and draw his foreskin up over the head, massaging carefully. A shuddery exhalation, and another wave of pre-come pulses out of him. He wonders if he'll ever run dry, or if he's being used as some kind of twisted dairy cow. The voice chuckles. "Let go, sink into it." Their hand really is milking him in earnest now, long downward strokes of his cock without enough pressure to satisfy, his weighted balls trapping him in place. He can feel both testes straining upwards against the weight, but unable to hold position, they cycle taut and relaxed over and over while the person's hand draws spurt after spurt of fluid out of him. It's a strange kind of agony, hurting and not-hurting at once, and he can't tell if he wants it to ever stop.

His teeth are bared, and after a few strained minutes enduring this not-torture his hips start to move again without conscious decision. The sharp tugs on his balls from the sway of the weights are almost welcome now, as two fingers lightly massaging his prostate and another hand wrapped around his cock are both stroking him far too slowly and gently for him to ever truly orgasm. They could keep this up indefinitely and there would be nothing he could do about it, no respite from the not-quite-enough delirious pleasure of it, please, please, _please, I need it, please let me, please fuck me, fuck me fuck me **fuck me**_

He's dripping sweat as they smile and kiss his tailbone and slip a third finger into his eager hole. He cries at it, a dam broken inside now that he can name what his body wants, what he needs to be satisfied. He's pleading for it out loud, he can't help himself, begging for it like a whore as he sobs for more, for another, please, anything. They've been working more and more slick into him and their last finger stretches but doesn't hurt as it's added to the other three. The not-pain of it is excruciating.

Four fingers are fucking into him, steady and shallow and slow. His body clutches around them, offering little resistance against their smooth, regular intrusion. "Still more? Is that enough, or do you need more, angel?" They're still jacking him ever-so-gently and the asset can only respond with a wordless wail and they finally fold their thumb to their palm and push slowly, implacably into him. Once they're in him up to the wrist they pause to let him breathe and adjust, still working his cock, tapping his balls intermittently to watch them swing with the metal weight and twitch ineffectually against its pull. 

They're fucking into him so slowly, pushing back and forth a few millimetres at a time, working more and more slick into him as they go. He's so slippery with it that all the resistance is pure musculature, twitching and fluttering at the stretch. "There you are, there you are. Just like that. You're so good for me." The asset is barely aware of their voice anymore, he's so lost in the sensation of being stretched and filled. 

When they finally close their hand into a fist deep inside him and push their knuckles against his prostate, he whites out for a moment until the drag on his balls pulls him back, gasping. He's torn between two extremes and their other hand keeps switching attention from his aching, overwrought sac to slow, light strokes of his neglected prick. They never jack him quite enough to let him -- but oh, God, every time their fist pushes past that spot, it's just -- fuck, yes, yes, _yes, again_

\--his dick jerks as ejaculate spurts out of it, regardless of the ache from his tormented balls. Pulse after pulse shoots out of him, the first few jets spattering his chest and the rest coating the bed beneath him when pure core strength inadvertently forces him up off the bed as his abdominals contract. His whole body seizes up in the effort to push it past the ball-stretchers, and he grinds back on their fist in a silent plea for help. It's so slow and prolonged he feels like his insides are liquifying and squirting out onto the sheets with the rest of his mess. When it slows to a trickle, he gets a moment's rest to suck in a few heaving breaths. He thinks about bringing himself to vertical, balancing on his knees, before he gets fully upright the hand returns to his cock, slippery and tight and perfect and oh, _oh, oh, fuck_ , how is this possible, he's going to come again, fucking desperately forwards into that now-tight, slick fist as his balls bounce against the unforgiving steel.

He's yelling and curls over the horizontal again as another orgasm is pulled from him, their fist in his ass rubbing hard up against his prostate this time, not letting up. Writhing and swearing under the onslaught, the asset sobs as he realizes they aren't going to stop. His hips are working against them still, fucking back on their arm even as he simultaneously wants to crawl away from the overstimulation. When no more fluid is forthcoming they let go of his dick, instead pushing his shoulders to force his chest back down into the bed, mercilessly dragging his still-tender nipples back and forth against the damp sheets as their fist continues to work inside him. He's bucking and crying at the rough nipple play when they finally remove the weight from his scrotum, and the relief of it spurs yet another gush of ejaculate from him, his balls tight and spasming through it, gut-wrenching and so, so satisfying.

The asset cries and shudders through endless minutes of milking, more semen dribbling out of him in fits and starts as they relentlessly work over his prostate. The glowing bright light is intensifying, and even with his eyes shut under the blindfold the asset has bright afterimages burned onto his retinas. Sweat is pouring off of him, and the blindfold is soaked with tears. They force one last agonizingly thorough orgasm out of him, this time just a single weak pulse of ejaculate followed by nothing but dry convulsions as he gasps and shakes. 

Their mouth is branding-iron hot when they bestow a final, delicate kiss on the swell of his ass, and carefully withdraw their arm.

He is collapsing forwards into a small lake of his own semen when they grab him by the middle and haul him sideways into a pile of dry bedding. Their body is a searing line of heat pressed up against his back. His teeth are chattering in shock as they lay behind him, stroking his hair and murmuring praise into his neck. "You're just the best, you did so well, beautiful. So good for me." The light is dazzlingly bright and he turns his face down into the blankets against it. 

Their arms hold him close, he's tucked up against their chest and wrapped in layers of blankets. He's never felt so bone-deep exhausted. _"Steve?_ " he slurs, maybe unintelligible, already half-sunk into unconsciousness.

Half an hour later, he's too deeply asleep to notice the needle that slips into his vein, coaxing him back into darkness and cold. 

It will be years before he wakes.

*

"This was very pleasant. I am sated." 

Rumlow nods once, warily. They're shining so brightly it's painful to look at them.

Rollins says nothing. The averagely person-shaped, uh -- person -- walks away, down the corridor. Away from them. Far, far away, Rollins hopes.

Rumlow cocks his head, squinting. "D'you get the feeling, that--"

"No."

"But isn't it -- they -- just, a bit--"

"No. Don't talk about it. Don't think about it."

Rumlow inhales--

"What did they fucking look like!?"

Rollins is determined. His mother has taught him some things, unlike Rumlow, whom he fears has been raised by wolves with no sense of self-preservation. When you get recruited to an organization based on Teutonic mythology, you damn well better read up on it and start accepting that shit is weird and unexplainable and dangerous sometimes. "Person-shaped. Just your average, buncha-triangles-and-a-square-shaped glowing person walking around doing sex magic on contract in a Hydra base."

"And maybe," Rumlow speculates, "Something that rhymes with … _schmelepathy_ \--"

Jack gasps in horror. " _Don't say that word_ \--"


	2. Epilogue I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock makes an impression.

**Baltimore, MD  
December, 1996**

The asset has been in cryo for a week before the Secretary's schedule brings him back to the Maryland facility.

"Unbelievable!" Rumlow has never heard Pierce shout before. Rollins had wisely chosen to have urgent business at the munitions locker rather than accompany Rumlow on his eavesdropping mission. "You had months to prepare, and still the footage is useless! Useless!" A video cassette clatters against the wall.

The door bangs open and his C.O. storms out, smart enough not to argue the point, Rumlow guesses. He'd made copies of the tapes himself for, ah, personal reasons: as soon as the contractor enters the room it's just eight hours of weird glowy blobs surrounded by darkness. Very disappointing. Pierce must be angry he missed the live show, but. Politics.

The Secretary appears in the doorway, mask of perfect self-control back in place. "Ah, Agent Rumlow. I've heard all about your performance in Moldova."

Brock smiles winningly. He's never spoken with the Secretary before. "Thank you, sir, I enjoyed myself."

*

Years later, Rumlow still occasionally jerks it to the mp3 audio file he and Rollins managed to rip from the VHS cassettes. Pierce had been very pleased with the surprise Christmas gift, and spent ten entire minutes talking at him about the importance of mentorship and networking in one's professional development while Brock nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Jack bakes him a cake when he makes field commander the next year.


	3. Epilogue II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes to a Stark fundraiser.

**New York, NY  
October, 2017**

"Steve! Steve, where the fuck are my -- oh. Jesus Christ!"

"I'm so glad you're back, Bucky, the swear jar was just so empty without you--"

"Fuck off!" He toes into his shoes. He hates these shoes. He hates these shoes, and this suit, and he hates Tony Stark, and--

"We're going to be late, come on."

"Technically we're already late, it started at eight--"

Steve rolls his eyes. "As if I would promise anybody we'd be there that early. Pepper said ten, let's go, giddayup."

"Oh, for Pepper then, if we must." Bucky remembers how she turned that one guy into a pillar of flames, though, and hurriedly finds his coat.

*

At the ball -- gala -- whatever, some stupid fundraising thing Bucky doesn't care about -- Steve is immediately apprehended by a swarm of strangely-dressed well-wishers. Their dresses look almost architectural, except for one that looks like a bird. Bucky makes a mental note to tell Clint. Clint likes birds.

Then he wonders if he's being entirely fair. Sam likes birds too.

And Sam is here! Hiding by the buffet table, where Bucky is--

"Are you sulking?"

"… No." Bucky answers, as not-sullenly as he is capable of, which is not much. Or a lot. Double negatives are hard. He pops an olive into his mouth. Steve is just so -- he's _so_ \--

"Swarmed by academic celebutantes, yeah, I get it man. It's for a good cause. Look, that hot redhead by the bar is eyeing you up, you should go over and, okay, good luck!"

Bucky is walking to the bar. Bucky is perfectly fine. He is not jealous at all. He doesn't even know what jealous means, he's not going to -- to glare at--

"Widow!"

Natasha smiles. She has so many teeth. The man sitting next to her turns grey and leaves abruptly.

Bucky loves Natasha.

"Drink?"

Bucky _loves_ Natasha. He also loves vodka, neat, thank you. 

They drink. Bucky glares at the, uh, _academ-butantes_ (it's the best he can do, he's not certain English is his first language anymore) circling around Steve.

Natasha takes pity on him and starts delivering mission-critical intel. "The curly-haired one in the blue -- she's the daughter of a senator. Failed out of Duke." Bucky silently assesses. Boring. No problem.

"The tall Black woman wrote a novel about trees, don't ask her about her MFA." She looks rather frayed around the edges. Grad school, an obvious psychological weak point. Natasha points at a muscular brown woman in a -- a bird dress? "That's the captain of the field hockey team -- she punched the lacrosse captain in the face last month. Biochemistry major. I'm thinking of recruiting her to S.H.I.E.L.D." Bucky tilts his head, makes a noncommittal noise. Threat level two.

"The short man in the pinstripes over there makes movies. He works in the Film department at NYU, something about experimental lighting and film development techniques. His boyfriend over there--"

His boyfriend is fucking hot.

"--his boyfriend stars in his more - marketable films, they're raking in the cash. Rumour has it they're making a big donation tonight." Bucky looks at Natasha's face--

"Oh! _Porn_ films!" he says. "Wait, no, I'm not surprised, that was a mistake. This is a Stark party, I'm the opposite of surprised."

Natasha is gleeful. "They do have quite the track record."

Bucky huffs out a laugh, and then pinstripes-man is standing beside Steve. Bucky watches his hands carefully. They stay far away from Steve's ass, but Bucky had better go defend Steve's virtue from older professor-types. Ideally by flirting viciously with their hot boyfriends within earshot of Steve.

Sam slips into Bucky's spot as he stalks off towards Steve. Natasha is smiling, curving into Sam like a parenthesis. His arm wraps around her waist, and also, he brought snacks.

Hot-boyfriend is no less hot but possibly less boy- as Bucky gets closer. He -- presumably he? Natasha did say boyfriend, but maybe that was uncharacteristically bad intel -- he is -- they are definitely person-shaped. Average height, average -- average build. But hot. Blisteringly hot. And kind of -- glowing. Not in a radioactive way, more like a, a light-bulb-in-a-cozy-room kind of way. Bucky pauses.

Sam went over the genderbread person with him several months ago, and Bucky runs over it in his head to check for pronouns. Genders. Shapes? He is annoyed that reality seems to be breaking down the closer he gets to the, the triangle-shaped … person. Square-shaped, maybe. From far away he could have sworn that the person was brown-haired, maybe a distance runner's build, but the boundaries of the person's … edges … are starting to seem less solid the longer he looks.

Pinstripe's hand keeps drifting over to Steve's elbow, and now they're laughing about chiaroscuro. He can't have heard that right. Fucking pretentious as fuck. Bucky steels himself.

He takes a deep breath and reaches out to touch the hot-friend's shoulder. Flirtatious greeting 101, taught by Professor Barnes, pay attention class. "Hey, I … oh. Oh."

Looking at the person's face directly is really hard for some reason. They are very attractive, Bucky is certain. He suddenly feels very relaxed. 

The person smiles at him. "Well hello, sweetheart." Their voice is warm, so warm. They interlace their fingers with Bucky's, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the palm of his hand. "I'm so glad to see you again."

Bucky feels like he ate a whole handful of those fizzy candies Sam's nephews love. He feels like when Natasha's cat lays on his chest and he can't get up to pee for three hours because she's purring so loudly. (That sweater still has cat hair on it.) He feels like sunbathing on the Tower's roof garden, Pepper and Tony bickering on the balcony below him. He feels like, he feels--

Bucky feels a vague sense of alarm, but it is very far away. It is possible he is staring at the person dreamily. It is possible that Steve is staring at him staring at the person dreamily. He's lost the thread of things, somewhere, but he very much wants to climb inside this person and stay forever.

"Oh, darling, that's very sweet. Come and--"

Oh, he would. He would very much like to come now. Really, just one of those hands and he could--

"--visit our studio sometime, I'd love to -- oh hell." Even their swearing is like molten sugar.

Pinstripes is here. Bucky frowns. Pinstripes was in the way of, of something. Something important.

Someone is talking. Bucky doesn't care. Bucky doesn't care about anything but the glow-y feeling taking up residence behind his sternum. Then someone is pulling him away, and he makes a displeased noise.

"--ferable, but only through skin contact. Oh! There you are! Very good, very good. Sorry about that, my business partner can be a tad overwhelming! They don't usually, ah, do that in public, though."

There is a large object between Bucky and the person. The object frowns, and hugs him a little protectively. Bucky blinks up at it. "Stevie?" 

"Bucky, thank god." Steve turns back around to Pinstripes and his business partner (somewhere, Clint is making air quotes), corralling Bucky behind him. "What the f--"

"Swear jar." Bucky intones solemnly.

"-- dang heck was that. Bucky, really, is now the time?!"

Bucky is pressed along Steve's very large, very solid, very warm back. He wraps his arms around him. Steve's suit jacket is so soft against Bucky's cheek. 

Pinstripes is talking but nobody is listening. "Not to worry, effects wear off after a few hours, ah, a day at most. Very recreational, quite valuable to our production company. So lovely to meet you all!" He spins on his heel and departs. The glowy-person-shape slounces after him, hummingly. Neither of those are words, Bucky thinks, but he does not care. It has been a strange evening and he wants to go home.

"I think that's a good idea, actually. Let's get you home, and -- and we'll sort this out later."

Bucky gloats, ecstatic. Pinstripes is vanquished.

"Oh my god! Bucky, what was that? What did he do to you?" Steve hisses. But Bucky is clever and resourceful, and he is draped across Steve's front now because Steve is too slow to stop him.

"They, not he." Sam says, popping up behind them. "At least, according to IMDB." He has his phone out.

Steve looks immediately guilty. "They. Sorry, sorry." 

"Anyone can make mistakes, what matters is how you respond to corrections." Sam says, mildly. "Anyway they both left, took the elevator all the way down. JARVIS tracked them out, Nat is following them home in case we need to find them tomorrow. Can giant novelty cheques bounce?" Sam pauses to take in Bucky's enormous pupils. "Damn son, you're high as a kite now, huh."

Bucky hums happily against Steve's shoulder.

"Take him home and feed him some Oreos. Nat and I will take care of this."

"I--"

"It's fine, Steve, I'm sure he's going to be okay. Go home."

"Al--alright! Bucky please, just wait five minutes--"

Bucky pouts. Steve's ass has been manhandled by a hundred celebu-demics tonight, so he's turning down Bucky? Unbelievable. Bucky's life is so tragic.

"Don't look at me like that -- God, fine, we're going. We're going right now, get in the elevator--"

*

Steve stays wrapped around him all night, and most of the next day. Somewhere, a tiny Italian man is angry that their nice suits are crumpled on the floor, but the boundaries of Bucky's body-mind are tenuous and hazy and he doesn't care. Bucky wishes they could stay like this forever, so entwined he can't tell where he begins and Steve ends. He is so, so warm.

*

By the time tomorrow afternoon rolls around Bucky is ready to eat a horse, and sends Steve to acquire Thai. "Oh, you can stand being apart for two minutes now that you're hungry, huh? Romance is dead." Steve looks at him mournfully.

Upon Steve's triumphant return with four kinds of curry, tom kha gai, and close to a pound of coconut rice, Bucky confesses that whatever-that-was wore off about five hours ago. Steve sputters, and Bucky kisses him until he's laughing and they're melting into each other. 

Bucky loves Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes:
> 
> 1\. Rumlow's statement at the beginning of Chapter 1 is incorrect. 'That thing with the dog and the bell' that Brock references is Ivan Pavlov's classical conditioning research, and positive reinforcement is actually an aspect of operant conditioning (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operant_conditioning) developed by a completely different dude.
> 
> 2\. If you would like a body language / attitude reference for the OC, here it is: http://lizdejager.tumblr.com/post/109474688210 However, they do not look like any particular person, and, in fact, are not entirely human (as even bb!Rollins is smart enough to suspect).
> 
> 3\. Lastly, I'm sure it is already obvious to all long-term HTP readers, but: _neither WS/Bucky's stream-of-consciousness, nor his responses to the situation, are evidence of consent_.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Positive Reinforcement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681600) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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